


The King(s) of Brooklyn

by atashi7



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood Friends, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-13 18:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atashi7/pseuds/atashi7
Summary: It was never easy to rule. It was even harder to rule alone. The hardest, though, was to rule alone something you build together. [Spot/Race]





	1. Brooklyn, 1882-1897

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I'm living nowhere near New York, nor I'm American, so I have very little knowledge about the history and geography. I did little researches, but maybe there's still some mistakes. Do point it out to me with reference, I'll be so glad! 
> 
> About the language: English is not my first language, I apologized for any errors in the grammars, etc. Also, I'm not capable to write in their accent, so it's usual English I know.

Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins spent their every awakening hours together since they knew each other when they’re children, exploring Brooklyn’s alleys and streets as their playground. Went jumping around the wooden boxes and barrels of shops and ducking below tents and stall in the market pretending they’re in some adventure.

Race remembered their first meeting –he was seven and little Spot, five, covered with blood and bruises, running barefoot towards bigger Race to hide from a big guy with similar blond hair and blue eyes, clouded with alcohol, swinging his fist drabbled with his own son’s blood. Their first meeting was straightly Race’s acknowledgement of Spot’s father habit and how his mother had gone with another man. That night, he took Spot home, shared his and his mother’s bread and bed with him. Mama Higgins never mind, he kissed and embraced Spot like he’s her own. Spot always went back home though mama offered him to stay, and always appeared in front of Race with more wounds.

Then they sell newspaper hand in hand when they’re little older. Race looked back on how it’s like to be taller than Spot. Hell, he was even taller than other kids average their age, and looked how he ended up now. Even Spot is slightly taller than him.

Spot was eleven and Race was thirteen when they decided to build sort of party to protect particularly the small kids roaming around –kids smaller than them. They knew all too better how’s it like to wander without adults, living off the street with dangers everywhere–drunk people might kill you with their shaded temper, older boys demanded their money, thieves and conman, and the worst are the perverts.

So they gathered newsies of Brooklyn and made rules, inhabiting an abandoned warehouse near the bridge as basecamp for those who can’t even afford lodging house. There’s new kid coming almost every day, younger or far older than them, around 20s. They’re growing bigger than what they thought they will be. Money then became a problem, because Race used to provide those who’re really unfortunate with stuffs they might never be able to get their hands on with their own –he used to buy them with money he set aside, but slowly he had no enough. That’s when Race started to try multiplying his money by gambling –he didn’t always lucky, but when he did, he make sure he spend it for the boys (or, well, some cigars).

Spot then saw they couldn’t always depend on Race’s fortune, so he arranged a new rules stated that those with age ten and above has to chipped some money out from their earning every day for the collective purpose. The amount or percentage wasn’t specified, just how much you’re willing to collect from whatever you got that day –even one cent is enough. Some who disliked the idea left, but most of the boys are more than happy to spare their bits. They used the money mainly to prepare for winter, to purchase things like blankets, socks, gloves, scarfs and mufflers – then also books and medicines, sometimes a celebration, Christmas or Thanksgiving or just birthday gifts in general.

There’s no listing of the members, but Race and Spot remembered well all who stay and who leave. But mostly those who come never leave. They got everything they might never had there –brothers, friends, family and protection.

Spot had stopped going home since they settled in the warehouse, and two years later, the news of the death of old man Conlon reached their ears. Spot didn’t cried even when his father threw him to a running trolley and he almost lost his leg, didn’t even cry when he was stabbed in the middle of midnight stroll by a mad drunk man, but that night he cried a river inside Race’s embrace.


	2. Around Flushing, 1898

Racetrack Higgins always had been quite a free soul. He was a chatter and a charmer, got friends everywhere, and he’s especially popular with kids. He belonged to Brooklyn, but he loved to go here and there, behind the border and out, and it was used to be okay.

Not after a while.

Other area started to follow what they got in Brooklyn –Flushing, Richmond, Woodside, Bronx, Manhattan –which was good on one side of coin, because it made street kids protect and looked after each other, and gave all the boys options to gather as a family rather than roam on the street. 

But it also started sort of gang rivalry. Race found out one day, when he was heading towards Flushing bay. A boy, almost two feet taller than Race, brown hair curled in checkered-pattern newsy cap and freckles adored his fair face, stepped in front of him. 

The said boy offered a smile and an opened pack of cigar, “Higgins.”

“Dash.” Race took one stick, “How’s it going?”

Dash Turning smiled, “Nice day for me, Higgins.”

“Good to hear that. Want to roll some?” Race patted around his pants, checking if he had any leftover matches.

Dash handed a lit matches to Race –which Race leaned into –and started, “Let me be straight about this, Higgins. Turf said he won’t let any person from any other area inside the border. And you belonged to Brooklyn. Here’s Flushing.”

Race breathed out smokes and laughed at that, “My boy Dash, I used to walk in and out just fine. I played cards here with you and Blockhead a week ago.”

“Well, not anymore.”

Though Dash hadn’t stop smiling, Race sensed the tense coming out from it. He stopped his laugh, puffed in and letting out. 

“Turf, huh. What changes?”

“Rules, I guess.” Dash added with a low voice, “Brooklyn made it first.”

To that, Race squinted his eyes, “Brooklyn made rules for Brooklyn. And not for others.”

“Exactly.” Dash nodded, “Different area, different rules.”

“Yeah?” Race raised his eyebrow to Dash, “And what’s Flushing’s rules?”

“Anyone beyond the border, we soak them.” Dash stated, “Others in or ours out.”

“Soaking your own friend?” Race half-laughed in disbelief, “What kind of rules is that? Rules is supposed to protect, Dash!”

Dash didn’t respond to that, instead stating sternly, “We like you, Higgins. We all do. That’s why you’re an exception this time. But there’s no other time.”

Race groaned, “I can’t believe this.”

“You gotta be.”

Race figured Dash would keep smiling and won’t ever give another response to Race’s outcry, so he turned his back with an exasperate sigh. But at one thought, he stopped his pace and drawled, “Why Turf, Dash? You’re good enough to be on the top.”

Dash kept his smile, but his jaw tightened, and he replied,

“Why Conlon, Higgins?”

Race furrowed his eyebrow, “What?” He shook his head, sneered at Dash’s question, “Spot ain’t on top or something. Neither is me. Brooklyn’s all side by side.”

“Sure.” Dash’s smile grew wider, “Be careful on your way home, Higgins.”

***

Race stomped his way back to Brooklyn with a deep scowl, worrying the boys selling around the street who knew him, because Race was never really angry before. He ought to talk this out with Spot –this is getting out of hand. This was never what Spot and Race had in mind at all when they started gathering the newsies.

He arrived at the front of Brooklyn’s warehouse, spotted a figure of boy so lanky he earned his nickname and called, “Chickenfeet, see Spot somewhere?”

“He headed to Bronx, Race.”

Race furrowed his eyebrow. At this broad daylight? “And his papes?”

Chickenfeet muttered, “I guess he make someone else do it for him… like usual.”

“Huh?” Race widened his eyes, “He did that?”

“You don’t know?” Chickenfeet shot him a look.

Race really needed to talk to Spot.


	3. Warehouse near Brooklyn bridge, 1898

Spot was back late at night, tried to be very silent as he opened the door to the warehouse and stepped inside. He glanced at the bulges of blankets on the floor around a pot of fire. They’re all sleeping soundly, and he walked closer to kneel beside two boys snuggled in one blanket, smiling. Applecheek, gained his nickname with how his chubby cheek always maintain a permanent blush, and beside him is Coil, wide coily hair barely fit inside his beanie. Then it’s Roof –Kitty –Neckbiter –Toefoot –Adam –Knifetongue –Carrie –and Knocks. Spot remembered all their name, also other fifty four of Brooklyn’s boys name, age, and family condition. He went around some more –Toothy, Brickshair, Socks, and… Spot widened his eyes –one boy missing.

“Spot?”

Spot turned his head towards an eight year old boy, sighed in relief. The said boy, hair blond and wavy fell almost to the collar of his too large checkered shirt, was rubbing his eyes, one hand clenched on Spot’s pants.

“Hey, Gabriel.” The boy was so angelic looking everyone called him that –Spot smiled, “Where were you?”

“Went for a pee.”

Spot patted on his head, “All by yourself?”

“No, with Race.” Gabriel tilted his head to Race who walked behind him, hands inside his pocket.

“Oh, right.” Spot grew a bit nervous at the sight of Race–Chickenfeet told him on his way back that Race was looking for him. “You’re back to bed?”

“I will.” Gabriel nooded, “Night, Spot!”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good night, Racetrack.”

Race smiled to the boy, “Don’t let Socks stole your blanket.”

Gabriel laid behind his shared blanket with Socks and Spot followed Race outside.

Race took no time to warming up the conversation –he shot a question with a frown at Spot, “What did you do in Bronx?”

Spot sighed, “I met Moustache.”

“And what for?”

Spot stayed quiet, then answered, “Business.”

Race squinted his eyes, “Business? Do we have one with Bronx?”

“We do, Race, with all the areas getting heated up with borders.” Spot barked impatiently, “I need to settle down agreement.”

Race raised his arms in disbelief, “Agreement? What’s all about? We’re newsies, Spot! We’re not mafia or sort!” He growled, “We sell papes! We don’t need ‘agreements’!”

“We need it, to protect Brooklyn!” Spot yelled back, “It’s not same anymore, alright Race? It’s not our little children aids anymore. This is serious, they soaked a kid from Manhattan that sells in Bronx, last night Flushing and Woodside collided, I need to do what need to be done to protect the boys!”

“By using them to sell your papes?” Race hissed.

Spot closed his eyes, “Racetrack.”

Race leaned to Spot, “You don’t go around ordering them to do stuffs for you, Spot. We’re not like that! We’re all equal. We’re all brothers. We’re family!” He finished with a scream.

Spot replied with angry shout, “We need a leader, Race!” He went on, “How do I supposed to say it to make you get it how serious it is?! We need to lead. I, need to lead.”

Race repeated, “You.”

Spot growled, “I know you won’t be able to be one.”

“Hell, I don’t want to be one!” Race shouted. He sighed, “Spot, you know what? Let’s, let’s continue this tomorrow. With our head clear. Sounds good?”

Spot softened at his offer. He hung down his head, “I guess.”

Race had this urge to walk to Spot and cooled things off with lighter conversation, but he’s still a bit enraged. So he walked away.

***

The clearer-head conversation never happened, because Spot was never around. Things changed really quickly Race didn’t even know if he can keep up. A week after their fight, they have shifts to guard the lodging house, their warehouse, the bridge and their border. They got system which spread by some “trustees” Spot appointed –older newsies assigned to sell with younger one for security and sell improvement, the chipped in money now is a duty for everyone and it got percentage that increase depends on their sales that day. They got more rules, now also for what to do with those that’s not Brooklyn. That’s how they called themselves, “Brooklyn”, with no boys, or newsies, it’s just Brooklyn.

Race didn’t sit well with all of this, but he didn’t leave, because of Spot. Spot was still his best friend, they grew up together, they build the start of this Brooklyn together. So even though he’s uncomfortable, he stayed. He stayed even though now Spot looked so distant, so far from what they used to be. He stayed even though he actually felt betrayed and in loss. He stayed even though Spot wouldn’t even pay him a blink every time they passed by, which Race totally understand about, even though it still got his chest heavy. Brooklyn grew so much bigger than what they used to be. It was feared, and while the other borough scrammed to each other almost every night, the pride Spot build for Brooklyn made them seemed unreachable. They’re crowned as a special case, a final foe to be defeated. Rarely anyone try to mess with Brooklyn, only those with screwed head or very desperate. 

Race became just a little speck of dust in Brooklyn, and even further away from who sitting top of it, Spot Conlon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done for the first upload! Another uploads might happened in several days time. I wanted to finish the piece first, though, so it'll not left abandoned like my previous fanfictions... Comments will really made my day!


	4. Manhattan, 1898

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manhattan's here!

There’s news of new kid toppling Beef Fist who used to rule Manhattan. Beef Fist was nineteen, but he stood seven feet tall, with figure living up to his nickname –the biggest and brawniest newsies ever around. This kid was fifteen, nicknamed Cowboy, and people said he’s pretty more than scary. Race raised his eyebrow on it –Spot Conlon was, too, but maybe, somehow his menace win over his beauty.

But the more news spread around about this Cowboy, it become more interesting to Race’s ear. He was always in Manhattan, but was quiet a lone-wolf before. He didn’t stay at lodging house, because he didn’t want to be within any group or gang, and lodging house was the easiest recruiting place. He befriended the boys, but despised Beef Fist with all his guts.

“You know how Beef Fist is never a good ruler. He practically leads with fear. No order whatsoever you guys all so damn well arranged in Brooklyn.” Mush Meyers, the smiley face from Manhattan, told him, “So now that he overthrown Beef Fist, he’s now our new leader.”

“Right.” Race raised half pair of his eyebrow. They’re talking by the end of the bridge, one line border between the two area Beef Fist and Spot had deal on months before. With this new leader, Race imagined Spot would need to settle few new things, but he heard nothing yet so far. The brunette asked, “And you’re go all the way from Manhattan telling me all of this because…?”

“That’s where I am going with the talk, Racey.” The curly haired boy’s eye glinted as he added, “He’s asking me to bring you to him.”

Race shuffled his hand inside his pockets, “Why?”

“You just gotta find it by yourself, pal.” Mush moved to pat on Race’s shoulder –the Italian jerked, moving away his body quickly in surprise. Mush’s face fell, and Race skipped a beat. He didn’t want to hurt Mush, no one wanted to. That disappointed look in usually all-smiley face is enough to wither any flower on the peak of its bloom.

“Mush, I am sorry.” Race tried to prove that previous gesture is mere spontaneous act by reaching to the taller boy, swinging his right arm to brace it around the buff shoulder, “I didn’t mean to–“

“Race, I will never do anything to you.” Mush was indeed way too soft-hearted to live off the street. Hence the nickname. Some wondered how he managed till he’s this big, somehow.

Race sighed, “Oh, I don’t know, Mush.” He took off his hat and scratched his deep-brown colored hair, slick with sweat and hair-wax, “Everything changes a lot lately. Even those I think I know.”

The honey-colored glance of Mush Meyers rolled upwards, slightly nervous, “Is it about Spot?”

“It can be about Spot.” Race bit his lips, “It can be about everything.”

“Race, you got to meet Jack. That’s his name –that Cowboy.” Mush offered him his sweet smile again, “He’s different. I promise.”

***

The sky had darkened to shade of purple when Race and Mush arrived at Manhattan lodging house. Almost everyone had already back home from selling papes, hanging around in front of the house chatting while smoking and playing cards or rolling dice. Race couldn’t help but peeked more than he needed on two latest activities.

“You got two spades, pal, you don’t realize that?” Race suggested to a tall boy with blond hair and an eye patch covering his left eye.

“Race?!” Kid Blink jumped from his crouching position and hit him playfully on the chest, “It’s been so long, what the hell? How come you never visit anymore?”

Race laughed, “I didn’t know where’ve you been, Blink, but you do realize crossing the border is now harder than getting our hand on that smoking hot red-headed laundry girl, right?”

“Oh, Anne-Marie.” Kid Blink’s eyes –or at least, half of his that shown –turned dreamy. Mush came up to them and smacked Blink on the side of his blond head, “Cut it out. I need to bring Race in quick.”

Blink and Mush pushed him to the crowd near the front desk. He was greeted by many more boys he knew. Crutchie, smile as goofy as usual, Snipeshooter, quickly offered him from his pack of cigs –which he refused because he’s holding one, too, just unlighted yet –Skittery, looking aloof just like every day, Itey, Pie-Eater, Boots… And one boy he never saw before, but quickly recognized. Sitting on top of the front desk belongs to Mr. Kloppman who was currently unseen, must be the Cowboy himself. He was indeed pretty-faced, tough but smooth jaw framed the face crowned with messy neck-length blond hair, on the top of sturdy looking neck rounded by ruffled red scarf. Wearing black vest adored in white stripes and black cowboy hat hanging on his back, his pair of hazel pools glinted when the glance fell to Race’s dark brown ones.

“You must be Racetrack Higgins.” He jumped off from his seat and offered Race a hand, “I am Jack Kelly. But I’m known as…”

“Cowboy.” Race grasped Jack’s back with his hand that’s not holding a cigar, “I know you. Mush told me.”

Kelly grinned. He gestured to others to make way for Race, eyes flicked to the empty spot beside him. Race followed him, and leaned back to the desk.

“Want some light for that?” The blond put up his hand and some other hand from behind Jack quickly stuffed a matches onto his palm. 

Race shook his head, “I’m saving this one. What’s up, Kelly?”

“Oh right, yeah, so.” Jack slouched his back to Race’s level of height. Their faces were so close, Race could examined light-colored freckles dotted on the cheek and nose of their blond owner, just like he could saw how the eyes squinted in a sharp look, “I heard a lot about you.”

“Yeah?” Race glanced around the house by the corner of his eyes. Is this a trap? Everyone was stopping what they did, and now are watching his and Jack’s talk. He believed in Mush, and Blink and Crutchie and all other boys, but he didn’t know this new guy who’s leading Manhattan.

“You are accepted everywhere.” Jack showed a small smile, “Everyone know you, just like you know everyone.”

“That’s in the past.” Race didn’t wander his sight, staring back with as much intensity, “Now I’m same like everyone –cannot pass Richmond borderline without getting stabbed in my guts.”

Jack added, “Also… I know how you build Brooklyn with Conlon.”

That hit Race harder than he thought it will be. Race’s eyes fluttered down, and he wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants, “That’s also… in the past.”

The blond looked satisfied with his reaction. That pissed Race off. But he’s not in for the fight right now –not when the Cowboy was surrounded by his own escorts. Jack Kelly stood up straight and stepped away, but eyes are still locked to Race’s as he started again, “Higgins, I don’t want to rule any damn thing.”

Race waited. Jack turned to his fellow Manhattan boys, “And I explained it to everyone. I knocked out Beef Fist because he’s terror for even his own comrades. He’s arrogant, dangerous, and he ruled by fear. No any recognition or respect, let alone faith, or trust… But to be honest, I’m in no need of power, or control, or dominancy, anything. I just wanted to save up and hit the road one day. That’s why I become newsboys.”

“But you beat Beef Fist,” Race pointed out, “And he’s the ruler. You can’t be unaware of what’s your getting into.”

“I know.” Jack continued, “That’s why, now I’m sort of caught into this position. But I know nothing. Cause I never care before. Now I desperately need… what’s the word for it, pals?”

Everyone was looking at each other, confused. Jack were still remembering, “Ass… something? From the word assist…?” The crowd begun to be a bit loud, screaming suggestions and random words that not even close.

Race tried, “Um, assistance?”

“That, yeah!” Jack beamed, “I need… assistance. Need someone who know everyone. Explain to me who’s who and how’s them and all that. I need to know all of them quick, because I got into the hot seat in the most… tight, tight moment. This order that all have been arranged... I stumbled them a bit and everything might collapsed. Worse, it can turned into a gang war.”

The half-Italian winced. He never really believed that gangs of newsboys and street kids could reached this level of being political, but so many evidences were stuffed to his ears proving that it actually happened.

“And let me guess, you are thinking of making me…doing… assisting. For you.” Race finally decided to light up his last smoke, putting his cigar between his lips and quickly, with a whistle, a matches flew to him which he successfully grabbed into his fist, “Thanks, Snipey.”

“Yeah.” Jack answered, after he waited for Race to breath in his first pull, “That’s what I’m offering you.” The new ruler of Manhattan stepped closer to him, “Race, I’m in no interest to build any empire.” He paused to take a breath and said silently, “And I know neither do you.”

Race squinted his eyes. A whole parade of Conlon and Higgins splitting up because he didn’t want to rule was well-known around Brooklyn newsies, but he never realized it travelled far across New York.

“I’m ruling till my jar is full, then I will pack up and leaving this city forever.” Jack stated, “I just need someone to help me now that I’m leading, to protect the boys, now for real –not like what Beef Fist did. Protect my friends, all my brothers, this family I had.”

And to this, Race had to let out a laugh. A choky one, since he accidently breathed out smoke at the same time. Jack blinked at him, and waited.

“Kelly, I heard that kind of sentence far too much.” Race stared back at Jack, smile still hang on his lips. He bowed down his head, and drawled softly, “Far, far, too much, and too often. And… too… long time ago.” An image of him and Spot in the past, discussing about how they can make condition better for all newsies in Brooklyn –that’s all that matter at that time. But in one year count of time…

Jack looked hesitated, but when he finally decided to open his mouth, Race quickly cut him, “I’m done with all this gang stuff, Jackie boy.” Race shrugged, “Not again.”

The low voice of whispers and murmurs filled the room. Race inhaled and straightened his back, “Alright then, I guess I’m going to back now.”

No one responded, so Race walked away towards the door. But as he reached the side of street, Kelly called him, “Higgins!”

Race turned. Jack Kelly half-ran towards him, and smiled.

“Just so you know –Manhattan is open anytime for you.”

The shorter boy blinked. Cowboy patted him on the shoulder, and stepped back into the lodging house.


End file.
